Keeping the Children’s Graves
After an unspeakable tragedy, a Pennsylvania couple begins tending the children’s section in a cemetery.
In the Springtime, bright bulbs push out of the earth, and a gentle breeze nudges the swing in the oak tree where a teddy bear sits. The same breeze sets in motion dozens of pinwheels scattered across the hillside. Everything — the blooms, the swing, the bear, the pinwheels — has been placed by the same couple, and they, too, have a child here.
Dennis and Marilynn Guzy aren’t formally employed by the cemetery, but they’ve been doing this labor for more than a decade. Removing debris and working the earth on their hands and knees. Placing Easter eggs in the Spring and poinsettias at Christmas. They do it for the children, but the parents, too. Some are buried in the main section; others live out of state, having been pulled away for a job. Wherever they are, the Guzys want them to know that someone is here, keeping the weeds away.
The parents who do visit say they can hear their children whispering to them when the pinwheels spin. And those colorful objects turn without the slightest wind. Coming to such a serene setting, many parents have been able to forgive themselves for what happened. A drowning, a car accident, an undetected illness. Dennis and Marilynn know the feeling. They, too, have found peace in this place.
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When Dennis Guzy grew up in Philadelphia in 1950s, boys in his neighborhood got married and became one of three things: a fireman, a police officer, or a priest. Dennis fell in love with a girl whose aunt lived across the street and chose to become a cop. For twelve years, he served in the 23rddistrict, known for its high crime rate. He investigated murders, car thefts, and assault cases, then joined the police department’s newly created sex crimes unit. Marilynn stayed home to raise their two children. In 1989, the state attorney general recruited Dennis to work in the Child Predator Unit in Harrisburg. In this new city, Dennis worked long hours raiding homes and helping to convict hundreds of offenders. In 1991, when his children were sixteen and seventeen, he fathered a third child. This one did not belong to Marilynn.
Despite the circumstances, his wife embraced the baby, serving as his primary caregiver while he was in his father’s custody. The child, Jeff, developed a nickname for his second mother: Moo. Dennis and Marilynn evenly shared custody with Jeff’s birth mother, although they had concerns about her capacity to parent. Teachers reported that on the weeks Jeff was with his mother, he came to school un-bathed and without having completed his homework. As Jeff grew older, it became evident that his mother was battling drug and alcoholic addiction. These realities took a toll on the boy. His personality transformed, and he lost the boyishness that his parents loved about him. By the time he was fifteen years old, it was increasingly hard to remember that the sullen teenager had once made his rounds at his sister’s wedding, inviting the elderly women to dance with him. “I’m not in love with you,” he assured these guests. “I just want to dance.” In 2007, Dennis and Marilynn petitioned the courts for full custody. The judge indicated that they were likely to be granted this request. But before that happened, everything changed.
One morning, while in his patrol car on the way to the office, Dennis was called over the radio. The dispatcher told him to go to 3221 North Third Street. At first, he didn’t recognize the address, and the dispatcher wouldn’t explain the purpose for the trip. Dennis did know that Jeff’s mother lived on that street and wondered if something had happened to his son’s stepfather, who had a heart condition. When he arrived at the address, he saw that it was indeed Jeff’s other house. A woman from the coroner’s office was waiting to intercept him.
“Are you Jeff’s dad?” she asked.
“Yeah,” said Dennis. “What’s Jeff got to do with this?”
“Your son’s inside,” said the woman. “I’m sorry to say that he died. It was an overdose.”
Dennis began to take the path leading to the house when she grabbed his arm. “You don’t want to see him.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, how about we bring him out to you?”
Dennis waited in an alley on the side of the house. There, his mind began to turn. He had been protecting children for decades; how could he not know that his own was in such trouble? The paramedics brought his son out in a yellow bag on a gurney. They unzipped the bag just enough to reveal his head. “Oh God, Jeff. Why?” asked Dennis, running his fingers through his son’s hair. The workers stepped away, allowing him to talk to his son and kiss his cheek. Then they returned, re-zipped the bag, and rolled him away.
In the basement of the house, Jeff and his friends had each consumed a Valium with a few beers. When Jeff suddenly began to choke, his peers fled the scene. Afraid of legal repercussions, they didn’t even phone the police. Jeff’s mother found him when she returned to the house. After dialing 911, she called Jeff’s older sister, who served as an unofficial liaison with Jeff’s dad, and blurted, “Jeff’s dead, and the police are here.” This family member contacted the attorney general’s office, thinking her father’s co-workers could deliver the news in person. These individuals re-routed him to the scene, in part, because they didn’t know how to do that.
A few days later, Jeff was interred in the Resurrection Cemetery, managed by the Diocese of Harrisburg. The first year after his death, the Guzys frequently visited the gravesite. Walking past the children’s section of the cemetery to get to his plot, they noticed many unkempt graves. The ones marking infant deaths in the mid-century were especially ragged. They asked the cemetery director for permission to do a bit of weeding. With his permission, their ministry grew. At first, Dennis and Marilynn primarily worked on weekends. Dennis was now involved with the attorney general’s drug prevention program, through which he began to visit high schools and tell Jeff’s story. He’d share photo albums of his son and beg the students not to follow the same path. Teachers often called afterwards to comment about his impact. “When the students got back to math class, no one wanted to talk about math,” one said. When he retired in 2012, Dennis and his wife devoted more time to the cemetery.
The Guzys clip the grass around the gravestones, making sure no growth overtakes a name, date, or chiseled cherub or lamb. The put tulips and daffodils in vases anchored the ground. At Easter time, colorful eggs peek out of the green, and a large bunny surveys the scene from under the tree. Tending the hillside sometimes reminds the Guzys of the time the blades of their lawnmower broke, and a young Jeff asked to have it.
“Why do you want it?” they asked.
“I just do.”
“Well, alright,” they said.
The boy took the mower up the street to a friend’s house. About an hour went by before the Guzys heard the sound of a motor approaching. Jeff came flying into view, riding atop a lawn chair that he’d rigged to the motor. His friends were behind him on foot, sprinting with the knowledge that there was no mechanism for stopping the contraption.
In the summer, when the hillside goes without rain, the Guzys bring watering cans for the flowers. They give special attention to the blossoms of unmarked graves, since the petals are all there is. In some cases, graves are unmarked simply because parents couldn’t afford the headstones. A mother once wrote to the Guzys to explain this and to thank them for visually acknowledging that her two children were loved just as much as all the others.
Pouring water transports Dennis and Marilynn to the ocean, where Jeff once delighted in the tossing waves. Their son loved floating, too. His whole body buoyant, he’d let the water take him wherever it wanted. Lifeguards once cleared a crowded swimming pool in Disney World to save a drowning child. It was only Jeff, drifting face-down on the surface.
There are nicknames on some of the stones: Peanut. Angel. Slugger. Slugger has a glove on his stone during baseball season. If the Guzys notice the ball is missing, they track it down and return it to the leather pocket. Jeff was gaining recognition on the lacrosse team when he died. “This kid will be scouted soon,” his coaches said. He loved going with his dad to the Hershey Bears arena to watch the hockey team. Once, around twelve years old, he went to buy a hot dog at this place. The next thing his father knew, a security guard was leading Jeff, hoisted by the belt, down the stands to his seat. While Jeff had been waiting in line, the team mascot approached and playfully poked him. The kid thought it would be funny to sock the creature in the stomach. When they returned to the arena, Dennis told his son that his picture had been distributed among franchise employees and, therefore, he needed to lay low. Jeff sunk into his seat and watched the game from under his baseball cap.
Sometimes people approach Dennis and Marilynn wanting to give a donation. The Guzys refuse, simply asking for a prayer for the children. They’d feel funny accepting money, because their work is a gift to themselves, too. They get a special feeling every time they come, and it’s the same feeling they had with him. There is one stranger who prefers to admire their work from a distance. A sedan often idles on the road in front of the children’s section. The driver watches the couple work, sometimes for a half hour. But when they begin to make their way toward the road, he makes the sign of the cross and speeds away.
When fall comes, there are leaves and debris to be cleared away. The wind disturbs the trinkets that parents and siblings have left behind, but the Guzys know where most of these objects belong. They never let much more than a week pass without visiting to restore order. Around the first week of advent, the teddy bear is adorned with a red scarf and a Santa Claus hat. Sprigs of holly are wrapped around the rope of his swing, and a festive sign reads, “Guardian Teddy Bear On Duty.” Wreaths or poinsettas are placed on each grave before the first families arrive for their Christmas visit.
The diocese recently declared that only flowers could be placed on graves. Realizing how this policy would impact the Guzys’ work in the children’s section, the cemetery director, Tyler, asked for special permission for them to continue. It was granted.
All the Guzys want is to bring happiness back into people’s lives. And to let the parents of those deceased at a very young age know the bliss of being with their child on Christmas morning or a birthday. Too many will never get the chance. That number grows every time the ground is broken and a mound of dirt sits waiting to be leveled.
There are certain milestones that Dennis and Marilynn will never mark. Snapping photographs of their son at prom. Watching him toss a cap and tassel into the air. Holding his pink-skinned children for the very first time. But their relationship with Jeff didn’t end the day he died. When they tug the weeds growing between the cracks of granite, they speak to him. When they brush dead leaves away from an etched Psalm, they speak to him. And when the pinwheels turn on a calm April morning, or the first flakes of December begin to descend upon their labor, they hear his voice in return.